


a golden ring

by havisham



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Survivor Guilt, Treat, finally someone gets rid of that damn ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Sir James Clark Ross brings back something from the Arctic while looking for the Franklin Expedition and has cause to sorely regret it.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Sir James Clark Ross, Sir James Clark Ross & Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	a golden ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zipegs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zipegs/gifts).



There were artifacts from the expedition scattered all along King William’s Island. The Inuit found little use for them — the sad debris of life long since departed; bits of torn sailcloth, paper with writing too faded to read, untouched cans of Goldner’s Veal With Tomato. But one of them — a heavily swaddled man who was missing a hand, poor fellow — dropped a gold-plated ring into Rae’s hands, and he gave it over to James with a shrug. 

James examined it, trying to remember if he knew who the ring belonged to, but before he could quiz the man about it — or rather, get Rae to do it — the man was gone.

“Did he come only to give me the ring?” James asked himself, as the wind stole the rest of his words from his mouth. Rae suggested that they rest before trying to penetrate further into the debris field. There, no doubt, they would find more — more bodies, more clues to the disaster that had been visited upon their countrymen.

James had long since anticipated that he would be coming upon a place of disaster, but he had failed to anticipate how total the disaster would be. His first thought was, of course, of Francis and what he had thought and what he had done. His last letter had been full of foreboding and had preyed on James’ mind for years after. The end had proved Francis right, even as it killed him.

James wished he could find Francis’ body and bring him back. He wished to do this for Great Britain’s sake, of course, for he was indeed a patriot — but more selfishly, he wanted some part of his old friend back. 

In times of fitful sleep, James dreamt. His dreams were twisted and strange, making little sense. He was crouched in the middle of a landscape of shale and sky, and was deathly afraid. His blood pounded hard against his ears and he was in agony. But what frightened him more was the distant figure of a man, crawling toward him. 

James could tell, even from so far, that the man was European. The ragged remains of a greatcoat hung on his shoulders, and his hair, wild though it was, had once been brown. He did not want this man to reach him. He did not want to see him. 

He woke with a groan. Rae was already awake, his eyes watchful. “Bad dreams?” he said. 

“I suppose they must be,” James replied weakly. He wished with all his heart that he could flee from this cursed place, now that he knew there was no hope of rescuing Francis or his men. But he had his duty and he had to see it through. 

Every day, they found more pathetic remains of the expedition, including bodies — whole and incomplete. Every night, the crawling man crept closer. James could not say which was more terrible, save that at least he could escape the ghost by waking. He could not escape reality for that long.

Eventually, their mission was exhausted — they found no survivors and could only guess at what had happened to them all. 

Even as James sailed away from the Arctic for the last time, he brought the dream with him. The crawling man inched ever closer now. James could almost see his face. Death had wrought such strange and distinct changes upon him, _and yet James knew him._

“Why could you not be Francis?” James asked himself. It was the dog watch and he had stolen away from his bed. The officer on duty pretended not to see him — such was the privilege of rank and fame — as he leaned against the starboard side of the ship. They had gone so far that the coast of North America was no longer visible. Only endless water greeted his eyes. James took out the ring from his pocket and examined it in the uncertain light.

He felt an unholy impulse to drop the wretched thing into the sea. What good was it to bring back such a trifle, when all wanted him to bring back the hundred and twenty-nine men who had set out from England so long ago? 

To see Lady Franklin’s face when he told her that he hadn’t even located her husband’s tomb … James shuddered at the thought. 

He felt so tired of it all.

He did not consign the ring to the depths of the sea. He also did not give it over with the rest of the artifacts they had found. Instead, it rested in a case beside his bed in Ashton Abbott, and there it was when he dreamed of James Fitzjames for the last time. 

They were sitting on different islands on the lake — James on Erebus, as ever, while Fitzjames was stranded on Terror. They looked at each other cautiously. For the first time, James thought that perhaps, they shared more than just a name, except — 

The dead had no tongue to speak, no voice to be heard. They could only witness. And to dream such dreams was to be dead. 

Fitzjames opened his mouth and nothing came out.

James woke to the screech of a fox outside his window. Dear Ann was still curled up beside him and did not notice him slipping away. Outside, the grass was still wet with dew and James shivered in his thin bedclothes. To anyone else, he must have looked quite mad. 

The lake was in front of him and he was pleased to see that he had taken the ring box with him when he had fled his bedside. With all of his might, he threw the box, with its cursed contents, into the lake. It was consumed without even a splash. James collapsed on to the wet grass and he wept, for he knew this exorcism would do no good and the dead would always be with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, El! 
> 
> I decided to name Ross’ unnamed guide as John Rae, who was so unfairly maligned for, you know, discovering the cannibalism thing. That thing that Ross completely represses here!


End file.
